CHAPTER 113: THE SANCTUARY

I will confess this much: walking through a city that had once been thrumming with life only to find it hollowed out like a rotted gourd does curious things to the mind.

I had always prided myself on being quick with words, on having some razor-edged quip tucked away for every occasion, but there are only so many clever remarks one can make to soot-stained walls and broken windows.

The silence of the streets was its own kind of insult, an orchestra of absence that refused to play along with my humor.

I caught myself muttering greetings to the empty stalls we passed, mock bowing to toppled statues, and at one point I even tipped my pen like a hat at a startled cat that bolted down an alley.

Rodrick muttered that I was losing it, to which I replied that losing it required first owning it, and I had never owned much sanity to begin with.

He didn’t laugh.

The empty streets made it quite apparent. The factions had solidified now, like milk left too long on a summer stoop — clumped, curdled, and giving off an odor you couldn’t ignore.

Everyone knew where they belonged, or rather, where they were forced to belong. The Lady of Fangs had likely begun forming another hoard of silken thralls. The Southern Sun Cult was probably holed up somewhere in the shadows, waiting for the first strike.

And then there was the Man in White, strolling along with us now like some elegant phantom conductor, every step perfectly in time with a melody only he could hear. He was the kind of man who could step on a minefield and somehow convince the mines to politely delay their explosions until he was out of earshot.

We walked for a long while until, at the far end of the city, where the cobblestones gave way to the jagged edges of the mountainside, rose a barricade.

A truly glorious barricade, if one could call any mound of scavenged timber and steel glorious. It stretched across the boulevard like a scar, beams of wood lashed together with thick rope, rusted carriage doors jammed in sideways, the bones of wagons gutted for reinforcement. Oil lanterns glowed faintly above it, flickering in the morning mist, and figures stood silhouetted atop it with spears and relics in hand.

I braced myself for the usual routine — shouts, demands for names, the possibility of being skewered by a nervous recruit with more zeal than training. Instead, what I got was something infinitely more unsettling.

Smiles.

Actual smiles.

"Evening, sir," one of the guards called down, grinning as he leaned on his spear. His face was smeared with soot but his eyes shone with the same kind of warmth you’d expect from a tavern barkeep welcoming regulars. "Back already? All safe?"

"All accounted for," the Man in White replied, his voice smooth as silk ribbon, carrying effortlessly over the wall. He inclined his hood just enough to acknowledge them without lowering himself into anything as common as a bow.

The guards cheered. Cheered

. One of them even waved. And then, with a gesture, the barricade cracked open like a stage curtain drawing back for its grand reveal.

I nearly dropped my pen.

Because inside was not the chaos I had grown used to. Inside was... order.

Tents lined the square in neat rows, their flaps pinned open as men and women sorted through bundles of food stacked in orderly piles. A group of them carried buckets of water, sloshing it carefully into barrels marked with chalk symbols.

Healers crouched over the injured, binding wounds with clean cloth, murmuring reassurances that tried their best not to sound like hollow platitudes. Beyond them, I glimpsed squads of competitors adjusting packs and weapons before filing out in disciplined lines through side gates, scouts on timed missions.

It was a village. A community. Saints above, it was civilization.

"Holy hell," I muttered under my breath, unable to stop my jaw from slackening. "They’ve built a bloody neighborhood out of this nightmare."

"Not bad, is it?" Rodrick said, equally stunned. He scratched his head, eyes darting from group to group as though trying to spot flaws in the symmetry.

The naked knight let out a laugh so loud heads turned, utterly unconcerned with the fact he was, as always, naked. "Finally, a place where I can stretch my legs without people fainting in the streets! Feels like home."

I blinked at him, startled—not by the nudity, I’d long since lost that battle, but by the fact he was back to making his ridiculous quips again.

Hours ago he’d been carrying bodies out of fire and ruin with the grim silence of a war machine, and now here he was, cracking jokes like some tavern jester who’d never heard of trauma. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved he still had humor left or concerned that this was his version of shell-shock.

As we walked deeper, the effect grew stranger still. People greeted the Man in White as though he were some returning hero. A young boy, about sixteen, darted forward with a loaf of bread, holding it aloft like an offering; a group of women paused in their work to wave, their smiles genuine and unafraid; even the wounded lifted their heads when he passed, their eyes brightening as though pain itself had been dulled by his shadow.

It made my skin crawl.

He played the part of leader flawlessly, every tilt of his hood, every step of his pale boots radiating just enough gravity to inspire confidence without ever showing his face. He waved here, nodded there, murmured a word of thanks that carried like a blessing.

And all the while I walked beside him like some soot-covered scarecrow, trying not to look like the unwilling sidekick to a saintly apparition.

We reached the library soon after, though calling it a library felt like calling a cathedral "a room with chairs."

The building loomed above us, a cylindrical tower of stone carved directly into the mountainside. Its windows were tall and narrow, latticed with iron, and banners hung from its upper tiers marked with strange sigils that glowed faintly against the dawn. There were three levels, each encircled with a balcony that wrapped around like the rings of a crown.

The doors swung open before us, heavy oak creaking as makeshift attendants in pale robes hurried forward. One of them bowed low before the Man in White, voice trembling with devotion. "My lord, tea has been prepared."

Of course it had.

He accepted the porcelain cup with theatrical grace, steam curling up in elegant tendrils. Then, with the smug inevitability of a man making good on a joke nobody else found funny, he turned and extended the cup toward me.

I stared at the cup as though it were a venomous serpent coiled in porcelain.

My first instinct was to swat it aside, accuse him of poisoning me, accuse him of making light of all our suffering. But the eyes of the room were on me — attendants, survivors, Rodrick, Nara. All waiting. All watching. And damn me, but I could not give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

I took it. Slowly. Suspiciously.

The cup was warm in my hand, the steam fragrant, not bitter. I raised it to my lips, half-expecting to taste ash or iron or some concoction brewed from malice itself.

Instead...it was...surprisingly pleasant.

Floral, faintly sweet, the kind of brew you’d expect from a noble house at dusk rather than a barricaded ruin on the edge of war.

"See?" he said softly, tilting his hood as though smiling. "Civilization distilled."

I glared over the rim of the cup but took another sip anyway. Damn him, it was good.

We were welcomed, then. The attendants bowed, gestures sweeping, words rehearsed. "Welcome to the sanctuary base of the Third Faction," one intoned, her voice echoing in the vaulted hall.

The Man in White gestured for us to follow, leading us to a long table near the center of the library’s ground floor. Shelves spiraled upward around us, towering, their spines gleaming in the lantern light. Above, walkways crisscrossed between levels, figures moving quietly with the reverence of monks.

He spoke then, his words carrying like a sermon. He explained how this place was refuge, not prison. Nobody was forced to stay. If any wished to leave the tournament, they would be escorted beyond the walls, unharmed, free.

Several of the survivors from the bakery exchange broke down in tears at that, rising shakily to their feet.

"I’m done," one muttered. "I can’t— I can’t keep doing this." Another nodded fiercely. The attendants guided them gently away, their faces peaceful in a way I hadn’t seen since this nightmare began.

The Man in White continued, his voice soothing, persuasive. "For those who remain, there is purpose. Safety here, food, water, shelter. But know this: neutrality is a luxury that no longer exists. A war is coming, and when it does, loyalty will be demanded. If you stay, you will fight."

My stomach turned. The words were honeyed but the meaning was iron. Stay here and we would owe him. Our lives would be bought with allegiance.

I opened my mouth to argue, to make some cutting remark about how I didn’t sign up to join anyone’s theater troupe, but then—Salem’s hand landed on my shoulder.

I froze. Looked up at him. His expression was calm, unreadable, but his nod was slow, deliberate. A gesture of trust.

And that, somehow, was enough.

"Fine," I muttered, exhaling. "We’ll stay."

The Man in White inclined his hood, the picture of satisfaction, before dismissing us with a sweep of his cloak. "Well then, make yourselves at home. Beds are on the upper levels. Rest, for now. The play resumes soon enough."

And just like that, the party scattered. Rodrick and Salem set off to scout the perimeter, exchanging quiet words as they disappeared through a side archway.

The knight, who seemed to be a bit more relaxed now that everything had been settled, immediately began flirting with a pair of women hauling water, his booming laughter echoing like a bear in a porcelain shop.

Dunny became fascinated with the tea, pestering the attendants for samples, sniffing at leaves and muttering about their "earthy notes."

Which left me with Nara, trailing at my side.

We climbed the spiral staircase toward the third level, where the bustle of the ground floor gave way to hushed silence. Up here, only the faint rustle of pages turning disturbed the air. Lanterns glowed dimly, their light pooling across rows of books that stretched higher than I could reach, endless corridors of parchment and ink.

Nara’s voice was soft when she finally spoke. "I’m sorry..."

I stopped, turned. "For what?"

"For being a burden," she said quickly, wringing her hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed, guilt shadowing every word. "I’ve been trailing you ever since this tournament started. I know you would’ve been better off alone. I—"

"Stop," I said, sharper than I intended.

I stepped closer, fixing her with what I hoped was a stern look rather than the exhausted slump I felt. "Nara, you’ve survived thus far, and that’s all that matters. If you think I’ve been dragging you along, you’ve got it backwards. Hell, half the reason I’m still standing is because I can’t afford to look weak in front of you."

Her eyes widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through the guilt. I pressed on, because gods knew if I stopped I’d never get the words out.

"You’re strong," I said. "Stronger than you think. You’ve been through hell and you’re still here. And if you apologize one more time, I swear I’ll start charging you per word."

She blinked, then giggled—a soft, incredulous sound that cut through the heaviness in my chest. I couldn’t help it. I smiled, faint and crooked, but genuine all the same.

And then, before I had time to second-guess it, she kissed me.

It wasn’t grand, it wasn’t cinematic. Just a quiet, awkward, perfect collision of lips in the lantern glow. Her laughter hummed against my mouth, and when we broke apart she was still smiling, cheeks flushed.

We drifted then, down the rows of books, our hands brushing, our steps unhurried. For a moment the war outside seemed distant, muffled by the weight of paper and ink.

Until—

I heard it. The sound of slurping.

I froze, every nerve tightening. Slowly, I retraced my steps, peering into the row we had just passed.

And there he was.

The man in the black feathered robe, blonde ponytail catching the lantern light, sitting cross-legged amid the books as though he belonged there all along.

My sponsor.

He raised his head, lips wet from whatever obscene noise he’d been making, and smiled like the devil had finally remembered my name.